The end of the Tether
by fine-feathered
Summary: There's a wolf in Dean Winchester's bed. It's an exact copy of him, but those eyes want to eat him alive. Is it all in his head, or is this phantom real?


Dean's come to the end of his tether

It's always late at night.

Only on the restless nights, does he see him.

He looks the same as him.

Same green eyes, same freckled skin and lines on his lips.

He never says a word or blinks or breathes.

He only stares straight into his eyes. But the expression behind those eyes are anything but blank. Dean wished that the eyes were vacant and dead. He would rather see this late night doppelganger dead than what he actually sees.

Behind the eyes there's something dark and monstrous. It's hungry and waiting, it's running out of patience. It wants to eat him and take his place.

The eyes some nights are wide. Huge. Like they can't get enough light or are trying to see through a fog.

They gotta be wider in order to eat him up.

Each sphere is a gaping chasm, and as the minutes tick by Dean can almost feel himself falling into them. The pit of his stomach moves and shifts like an elevator dropping two floors.

But on other nights the eyes are narrowed. Like a predator in the dark it waits patiently for him to blink. It's in that blink that his other self can creep forward. Slowly, ever so slowly over the stinking motel sheets.

Sometimes, on rarer nights, he wakes up with a start. He can feel his twins' eyes boring through his skull before he opens his eyes. It's trying to figure out how Dean ticks, where to start when he finally decides to rip into him. When Dean's eyes flicker open, he battles a dry scream as he feels the static, the tension, in the tiny space where the doppelganger's nose is a millimeter away.

Those nights are the most terrifying as this version of himself isn't trying to consume him. No. It's just come out of him, because this thing, this ghost, monster, whatever, has just escaped. It's not looking at prey anymore, competition, yes, but more importantly its looking at itself.

Dean doesn't know if he's the real version, or if the version he sees in his bed at night is the real version. Perhaps he's got the wrong end of the stick. Maybe he's the wolf in this bed.

Regardless, he spends the rest of the night staring, never moving and hardly breathing.

Only when the sun comes up does the abomination blink away, as if it was never there. But Dean knows better, because there's still creases in the sheets. He moves his hands over them, smoothing the crinkles away. Because this way Sam won't ever know and he can keep pretending.

...0

Sunlight streams in from the dusty diner window, gold light pooling on the freshly scrubbed table. Taking a sip from his coffee cup Dean stares at the passing cars, resisting the urge to yawn or rub at his face. Sam watches him from the corner of his eye, concern radiating off him like heat from baking tarmac. "Didn't you get any sleep last night Dean?"

Quirking a smile is getting harder. Even those tiny muscles ache with weariness. "I got plenty, thanks for asking princess."

Tendons jump in Sam's jaw as he bites back a retort. Instead he picks up his own drink, taking a mouthful of the fresh orange juice. Sam knows there was no point in trying anymore.

Their breakfast arrives, plates scraping across the linoleum table. The elderly woman barely spares them a glance as she shuffles back to the bright yellow counter.

They ate in silence. Pancakes and fresh slices of strawberries for Sam. Bland and burned toast and bacon for Dean. Glancing down at his plate Dean feels bile bite the back of his throat, a flush of sickly heat blossoms on his face.

He doesn't bother picking up his knife or fork. The bitter coffee will do.

...0

Sam's gone to get some dinner, leaving Dean to walk back to the motel room through the drizzle.

Pulling out the cool key Dean slips it into the lock, hears the click and swings the door open. A dark expanse lies before him, dimly lit by the blue neon sign behind him.

A ripple of fear scratches down his back, long nails that leaves red welts in their wake. Dean steps into the room, one foot at a time. He can hardly see. Dean gropes for the light switch, fingertips rasping against the raised patterns in the wallpaper. Finally the smooth plastic meets his touch, and with a click the lights are on.

There he is.

In that moment between light and dark, he stood there for a split second. That tiny time where the light is like an atom bomb that stains your retina, paints a juxtaposition of gloom and bright. The doppelganger haunts that sliver of time. Dean stumbles, back hitting the wall as he struggles to remain calm; to keep away the tide of light headed panic. He's never seen him anywhere but in his bed. He's beginning to escape, he's slowly crawling his way out of the motel room.

Dean's back slides down the wall, knees weak with horror as he realises this phantom version of himself is only going to get more persistent. It's going to follow him around during the day, he just knows it. When he's driving the Impala, he's gonna glance it in the rear view mirror. In every tiny moment where light and shadow dance and bleed across one another he's going to see the doppelganger.

Clutching his head in despair Dean lets out a guttural cry. The palms of his hands are growing wet with fearful tears and sweat.

Just how long is he going to last before the Wolf that mirrors his image eats him whole?

...0

((A/N: I can't decide whether to keep this as a one-shot or to make it into a multi-chapter story. I have a few ideas and a direction in mind if I do. Let me know by leaving a review.))


End file.
